


"Please Send a Lock of Your Hair By Return Mail"

by farad



Series: Sweethearts Conversation Hearts [2]
Category: The Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-29 19:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/690766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/farad/pseuds/farad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nathan, St. Valentine's Day</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Please Send a Lock of Your Hair By Return Mail"

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: set in the 'first season', before "The Trial". Special thanks to Dail, JoJo, and Huntersglenn for the beta, all mistakes my own; special thanks to Huntersglenn for double-checking my detail and finding this: 
> 
> "CHRIS: He's your father. What's the matter with you?
> 
> Nathan sits on the bench.
> 
> NATHAN: When I was about seven years old, our owners decided to sell him and us kids away from our mother. Put us on a wagon and we ended up going to Alabama. She stayed behind in Georgia. **Then, after a while, he told me that she died.** Now, I was just a little boy at the time, but, all that time, I waited for him to find a way to keep our mother with us, or us with her. But he never said one word. He didn't do anything. He didn't argue, he didn't even beg. He didn't put up one damn ounce of fight to keep our family together.
> 
> CHRIS: Sorry.
> 
> NATHAN: He should've done something."

**_Set in the first 'season', soon after the seven come together, before "The Trial"_ **

Feb. 9

Nathan entered the store early, while Gloria was still opening. She waved to him as he came in but she was too busy working on putting out her wares to talk.

He didn't need much, but it was important: coffee and sugar. Coffee for his late nights and early mornings, and sugar for the children's blends he needed make. He was low on them, cough syrups, pain relievers, sleeping potions, things that needed to be made slow and hot.

He picked up a tin of coffee, a large one, then he stepped several steps to look at the packaged sugar. Only in single pounds. He knew Gloria had a barrel behind the counter, and paper bags, and a big scales that weighed amounts, and that was probably better, for her at least.

Nathan looked around and caught sight of Gloria outside, sweeping the sand off of the boardwalk. The wind from the day before had died somewhat, but he suspected that it would be back later today. It was winter in the desert, after all.

The desert. The very idea of it caught him by surprise. It always did, every time he found the realization of it going through his head. He'd never thought he'd see a desert, much less be in it. He had been born, grown into his teens, in the humid, green South. Winds there had come with storms, with bad weather.

Cold there, winter there, had been ice and cold rain and sometimes even snow. Making up the batches had been things done when there was nothing else to do, when it was too wet and cold to work the land, and when they were always needed.

Cold, there, had been ice in the creeks and not enough clothes and no shoes.

He found himself standing in front of a section of shelves that held socks. He plundered through them, impressed with some of the tighter weaves, thinking that eventually he should buy some, but while he coveted them, he didn't need them.

He took another step up the aisle, his gaze running over the handkerchiefs, gloves, shirts, all the things that were being made in factories back east these days. He had seen some of these things in a catalog that had shown up in Inez's bar, and at prices close to these. Things that were made by people he knew were earning so little that they were little more than slaves. Not tied to somewhere, not 'owned' as he and his own family had been, but so dependent that they had little other choice.

The anger burned through him, deep and bright, like a fire. He wanted to pull these things off the shelf and throw them into a fire, wanted to keep anyone else from buying them, providing these bastards with any profit off of this almost-slave labor -

"Nathan? You finding what you need?"

He jerked and looked toward the sound. Gloria was standing inside the door, looking toward him. The sun was coming in at an angle, bright as only the morning sun could be, and though she was smiling, he could see the lines at the corners of her eyes, the slight blue-ish swelling under her eyes. She was tired.

His anger ebbed as he looked into her face. "I need some sugar, if you don't mind."

"Of course I don't," she said and the smile was more sincere now. "How much?"

"Five pounds?" he asked.

"I'll get right to that," she said, turning toward the counter.

He glanced back at the stacks of clothes and shook his head, clearing away the last of the irritation. Wasn't right, but there wasn't much he could do alone. He started away, his gaze caught on something in one of the stacks, a bright green piece of fabric. It was in a stack of shirts and for a few seconds, he hesitated. He didn't need a shirt, hadn't come in here looking for one, didn't have the money for one.

But his fingers were already touching the cloth, finding the flannel to be soft and thick, and his mind was already conjuring up memories of this color, a section of fabric in a worn quilt that he slept under for more nights than he could count. One patch of color, but the one in the front center, of a long, rough skirt worn just on Sundays, to prayer meeting. The color of a kerchief worn over dark, curly hair, the one that let him know where she was even when he was out in the field working or back in the quarters, waiting for her to come down from the Big House.

It wasn't a shirt, but a bandana that had somehow ended up in the wrong stack. He pulled it out, looking at it. No design on it, just green, but it was trimmed up nice, all the edges tucked under and stitched down, probably by some poor girl in a factory back east, working her finger to the bone for not enough money.

But that wasn't the image he saw when he looked at it. The image he saw was of a laughing woman, her dark eyes filled with love for him and his father and his sisters. A woman who told them stories of the doings in the Big House, making things sound funny even though he knew, now, that they hadn't been. A woman who filled his young life with as much love and joy as she could.

"Nathan?"

He could hear her, as clear as the day she had called out to him, and he could see her, dark skin, white teeth, and all that green around her, smelling of the kitchens and the herbs she kept for cooking and the gardinias she cut for the Big House, holding out her hand to him, wanting him at her side, in her arms -

"Are you all right?"

He jerked then, the memory dissolving around him. He stood in the Potter's Store, the cloth pressed against his face, and Gloria Potter was standing behind the counter, looking at him, her tired face worried now.

Nathan opened his mouth to speak but the words caught in his scratchy throat. He realized that his vision was blurred, and that the cloth he held had dark spots where he had held it to his face. He nodded, though, worried that she was worried.

He saw her open her mouth to speak, but then she stopped and her gaze left him as the doorknob turned, the door opened, and the little bell above it tinkled.

"Gloria!"

The newcomer was Mrs. Ola Newsome, a portly older woman who had birthed and raised five sons before her husband, a local rancher who had built up a modest spread, had died several years back. She had turned over the ranch to the boys and their families and moved into a small house here in town. She was a social force in the town, the center of several groups that worked to make the town 'civilized'.

"Ola," Gloria responded, turning to the other woman. It was almost a physical relief as her gaze moved away, and Nathan drew a deep breath.

February. He'd been trying not to think about it – hell, it'd been over twenty five years ago. He was grown man now, grown and free and living his own life. He could go whole months at a time without thinking about her.

But he couldn't go a whole year. When it rolled around to this time of the year, he couldn't help but think of her.

Nathan looked at the bandana he was holding. She had loved this color. He could remember that last Christmas with her, how his daddy had given her a leather bracelet that he'd woven himself out of scraps of leather from the master's tack room. He'd wrapped it in a piece of green cloth he'd found in the back of the stable, and his mother had been just as pleased with that old scrap as she had with the bracelet itself.

His father. There was a memory he could put aside, the man who had let them all be sold away, taken away, leaving his momma behind. But the anger was good right now, it helped to drive away some of the pain.

He drew a deep breath, regaining some of his equilibrium. It had been a long time ago. She was dead, his father had told him after they had moved away.

After the war, he had placed ads in the Christian Recorder and other papers, trying to locate his sisters, and even his father. No luck, though. And now it was February again, the month that he had last seen his mother alive, the month of his last memory of her.

"I'm looking forward to it, Gloria," Mrs. Newsome's voice cut into his thoughts. "See you tonight." The bell over the door rang as she pulled the door open and made her way outside.

Leaving Nathan alone, once more, with Gloria. He still held the green bandana tight in his hand and he knew it was going with him, whether he needed it or not. As he started up the aisle, Gloria said, "I've got your sugar ready."

"Thanks," he said, the word coming out but a little rough. He cleared his throat as he set the bandana and coffee down on the counter beside a brown bag that was closed, the top folded and tied down with a length of hemp to make a tight square.

He knew Gloria was watching him, even as she pulled out her pencil and tallied up his total. He looked along the counter, letting his gaze roam over the items she had on display, things on sale that she needed to clear after the holidays, and other season things. Like the display of candies under a glass covering.

"Got those in last week," Gloria said. "I don't usually order in things that are that delicate, but they come with little messages in them. They're quite the item back East."

"Messages?" Nathan said, confused. They looked pretty enough, delicate, even, made up to look like brightly colored seashells, with tiny lines etched into them."

"Valentine's Day," Gloria said, and for the first time, Nathan registered the gold locket that sat in the center of the display, with pictures of Gloria herself and the former Mr. Potter, now resting in his grave. "These are the sayings," she said, pushing a notecard toward him. "Not all of them are romantic, some are just fun. And the candy – well, it's not as good as what Nettie makes, when she's of a mind, but for store-bought, they'll more than do. I had to run Daniel out yesterday – I made the mistake of telling him that he could sat the broken ones, and I found him handling them as if he could break some of them just so he could eat them!"

Nathan grinned, amused, and it felt good. Better than where he'd been. "I would have done the same thing as a boy," he said, looking over the candies. One of them was a light green, not as dark as the cloth he held in his hand, but still – green. He glanced at the card which told him that the candies were ten cents each. "I'll have that one," he said, pointing to the green one.

"Oh, that's a fine one!" Gloria said, reaching under the counter to pull out a small box. "Is it for your sweetheart out at the Seminole Village? The saying with it is appropriate - "Please send a lock of you hair by return mail"."

Rain. Nathan's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't even thought of her. And here it was, getting on close to Valentine's Day, and he was thinking of was making cough syrup and losing his momma.

Cough syrup . . .

"Now don't worry, I don't tell anyone who buys what – that's not proper, especially in a town this size. You've got no need to be shy, Nathan. You've been in this town long enough to make a home for yourself, it's about time you thought of settling down and having a family." She tied the box off with a slender red ribbon then hand it across the counter to him. "She's a very lucky young lady."

Nathan swallowed. How could he possibly explain that it wasn't for Rain? That it was for someone he he'd never see again?

As if sensing his thoughts, Gloria's smile lessened and her forehead creased. She glanced down at the small group of items in front of him and asked, "Is green her favorite color?"

He had no idea. As he struggled for some way to answer, the door opened and the bell rang, and Josiah called out, "Nathan? Tiny needs you over at the livery – he got kicked by one of the horses and it looks like he might be hurt pretty bad. You want me to get your bag?"

The confusion, the worry, everything that had clouded his mind vanished like smoke in a sudden wind. "It's on the table beside the door," he said, gathering up the things he'd purchased. "Put these on my tab?" he asked Gloria.

"Of course – let me know if there's anything I can do to help." She was all business now, as if she, too, had completely forgotten what they were talking about.

Without a thought, Nathan dropped the green bandana around the little box with its wintergreen confection safely held inside and picked it up with everything else. "Here," he called after Josiah as the big man started away. "Can you take these with you?"

Several days later, as he rode out to the Seminole village with a fresh supply of cough syrup and willow bark tea to leave with them, he thought of the green-wrapped box which still sat on the table by the door, where Josiah had put it. Nathan had picked it up more than once, arguing with himself that it should be for Rain. His mother was long past any use for it.

But as he'd packed up this morning, this cold and dry Valentine's Day, he'd put it in his pocket, then pulled it out again, staring at it. It was green, and it tasted of wintergreen, and it said, "Please send a lock of your hair by return mail." Which was the dumbest thing ever, if he was going to be standing there in front of her. And he still didn't know her favorite color.

So he'd left it behind, thinking that eventually, he would eat it himself. Instead, he'd stopped by the Potter's Store on his way out of town, having arrived at the idea that if she pressed him, he'd tell her that he'd lost the first little package. But Gloria had been tied up with Mrs. Newsome when he'd arrived, and it had been Daniel, thankfully, who waited on him. There were many fewer choices now, and he'd had to settle for getting her one without any saying at all, as he wasn't yet ready for "Marry Me" or "Love You." Not yet.

But since he didn't get one with saying, he got two for the same price. And Daniel had done a good job of tying the bow around the little box as he'd said, "Those chocolate ones are the best. You might should eat 'em yourself, so be sure not to waste 'em on someone who's not real special."

Nathan thanked him for his advice, but as he rode out into the early morning sun, he hoped Rain would like them.

The air was cold, but the wind was once more calm, and as he rode into the February morning, he found himself thinking about a different set of dark eyes and white teeth and favorite colors, and hoping that his own words would be enough.


End file.
